Defacement
by xamsiras
Summary: Erik is what society believes to be a vandal, hiding in abandoned buildings and filling them with magnificent murals. He believes he has no need to ever interact with others, but fate seems to intervene when Christine, an aspiring illustrator and portrait artist, comes crashing through his structured yet flawed reality. His world is then thrown into complete and beautiful chaos.
1. Prologue

_**Defacement**_

**Author's note:** My first Phan fiction! I love Phantom, and always wanted to write one. I had this idea in a dream, so I hope it isn't too bizarre or anything. Also, there isn't any music in this. It's also modern day! Enjoy!

**_Summery:_**_ Erik is what society believes to be a vandal, hiding in abandoned buildings and filling them with magnificent murals. He believes he has no need to ever interact with others, as his imagination and art nourish him more than anything else. However, fate seems to intervene when Christine, an aspiring illustrator and portrait artist, comes crashing through his structured yet flawed reality. His world is then totally thrown into complete and beautiful chaos._

I believe that the day was my twenty-fifth birthday. It was a day like any other, which started out identical to all of my days at Schrade. I had recently moved there, after my last settlement became occupied. I knew it would be a matter of time before Schrade would become active again, or just be destroyed. After all, they were turning my last home, an abandoned supermarket, into a Walmart. They bulldozed the building completely flat, and all of my work was ruined. I left as soon as there was word of that impending doom - before the lot was even sold. I couldn't afford to be found out. It wasn't much of a surprise, to be honest, that a Walmart was coming into town. The area had been getting more and more depressed each year, starting with the closing of Schrade in 2004.

I was seventeen when the factory shut down, and it left a very bitter taste in my mouth. When I was a child, I would pretend that I had a father who worked in the factory, who would wake up every morning incredibly early and come home when I would be fast asleep. I imagined he had dark hair and rough hands, with strong broad shoulders and a kind smile. It warmed my heart on those frigid October nights in the cabin, and I would sleep soundly. As I grew older, my imagination proved to be less of a comfort and more of a hinderance. Perhaps that's another reason I chose Schrade, even though the Nevele Hotel was available. I wanted to be close to my imaginary father.

I arrived at Schrade when I was nineteen years old, in the summer of 2007. It was very annoying to pick up my things and move to the neighboring town, especially with the supplies of cans I had back then. I lifted the large sack of metal onto my back, and walked into the night, making sure to stay unseen. I suppose it wasn't uncommon to have a strange man walking around at three in the morning, especially in the town I was moving to, but I didn't want to take the risk. The clinking of cans in the sack drove away any animals that might've been eyeing me for a midnight snack, so I felt safe. I broke through the "private property" fence, and made my way toward the gigantic structure.

The walls at Schrade were incredible: massive, cream-colored walls, blank and endless. I believed the entire building was my canvas, and it belonged to me. I remember the first time I walked through the obsolete machines and technology, savoring every little nut and bolt. The tiles were chipped and the windows cracked, and a thick layer of dust blanketed everything. All was silent and still, and I wondered if there was a large switch hidden somewhere within the large factory, where I could turn everything back on again with the flick of a finger. I imagined everything becoming reanimated and functioning, bursting into technicolor. The building enchanted me, and I knew it was mine.

I began my work almost immediately, flooded with ideas and inspiration from the beauty around me. I covered several walls in the basement and slept there as well, making sure nobody knew of my existence. I had a source providing me with paint on the outside as well, making sure I was fully stocked. The policeman had always felt pity toward me, so he made sure I was relatively comfortable wherever I settled. I suppose he was the closest thing to a father I had ever truly had. He even left me food, although I seldom ate anything. Art was what sustained and nourished me, to say in the most cliché way.

I had begun drawing at a very young age, covering the walls in my small room with drawings of whatever I dreamed. Some days they would be of my mother, and other days they were just patterns. Whenever I read a book that my mother would bring home for me, I'd imagine what each character looked liked, and I'd draw them. I would create scenes from the novels on the paper my mother provided me, living through them, imagining I was the main hero of the book. I was the brave knight, or the wizard. I was special. Soon, the entire house was covered with little white sheets of computer paper with my work on them.

Despite that, my mother never complained. She would leave for work every morning, and come home late with another stack of white computer paper, ready for me to become distracted once more. I would go through the books she got me from the public library at hyper speed, always requesting more challenging work. When I was younger, I believed I had above average intelligence, which is why I never went to school. I believed I was severely allergic to the sun and pollen, which is why I couldn't go outside. The windows had thick, heavy shades because my skin was fair, and everything was sealed so no harmful dusts could get into my lungs. I truly believed I was never supposed to leave.

"You are my beautiful boy," She would distantly say, with a soft, dreadful smile on her face, "I don't want you to get hurt."

She would place me on her soft lap and stroke my head, almost like petting a cat. She would hum a soft, unidentifiable tune, perhaps one she used to listen to before I was born, and stare off into the distance. I always wondered what she was thinking, if she was even thinking anything at all. I felt that my mother had died the moment I was born, and her soul simply left an empty vessel for me. I could never complain, as she fed me and gave me paper. She clothed me and, of course, masked me. I was only allowed to be unmasked when I bathed and washed my face. I confronted her about it once, before I turned thirteen.

"It hurts to sleep with it on, and it's really hot tonight. Can't I just sleep with it off?"

A wild gleam appeared in her eyes, drastically different from the murky emerald-gray they normally were. Her face contorted into one of pure fury, as she screamed,

"NO!"

I shrunk back in fear, and never mentioned the mask again.

I couldn't go on fooling myself for the rest of my life, so I left when I was thirteen, and never looked back. I took my last stack of white computer paper, my new black mask made of cloth, and a few pencils I had found. I managed to open the back door (which had been locked from the outside for as long as I could remember) and silently walked into the night. I walked through the cool spring air, feeling the muddy leaves scrunch under my feet. I knelt down to avoid sharp twigs, and tried to stay on the beaten path illuminated by the moonlight. Although I was only thirteen, I was abnormally tall and lanky, but quite coordinated.

The forest was more beautiful than I had ever imagined, with it's dark, rich colors and beautiful shapes. Even the smell of dirt was intoxicating. I felt like I needed to draw all the magnificence that surrounded me. As I trudged along, I felt my foot hit against something heavy and metallic. It appeared to be some sort of can, but I couldn't make it out in the dim lighting. I decided to put it into my sack and keep moving forward, and I eventually found myself at my first settlement: an abandoned supermarket a mile from a small, country town. The town had little bell-shaped streetlights and a narrow main strip with several stores, including a florist and a deli where there were movie rentals. I heard the chatter of several men outside the deli, and waited for them to disperse before making my way toward the large, dilapidated building. I broke in, and managed to find a spot clear of debris all the way in the back, near the freezer. To my surprise, there was a small light that still was functioning, and I had already made myself at home.

I finally examined the can from the woods, and saw it was actually paint. I read and reread the label many times, memorizing every ingredient and fact. It was red "spray paint". It instructed the user to "shake thoroughly" first, and then hold at a certain distance and spray it on a clean surface. I made the decision to try it on the far wall, facing my little bed made of a few sheets and a small, thin pillow. I pushed my finger on the valve, and allowed myself to visualize all of my feelings at that particular moment in time.

The red devoured the white, screaming and crying with it's color, pushing all of the fear and hate away. The color spread and flourished, whistling and waving. I sprayed myself into that wall, with lines, with shades, with anything and everything. The whispery sighs of the paint cleansed my soul, as if I had finally moved on from my mother and all that she had deprived me of. When I had finished, I was astonished with what had actually taken place. A larger-than-life red mask was staring back at me. My eyes widened, and the air left my lungs. I fell to the ground, tears pouring from my tired eyes, my hands pink from my work. I then slept fitfully, for the first time in years, and I smiled. I dreamt of cans, clinking in the dark, and the soft wisps of aerosol paint.

The years flew by, and my work grew larger and more colorful. I had come across a policeman a few years later who provided me with paint, as long as I stayed out of trouble. It was quite easy for me, anyway. I seldom left my settlements, perhaps only to actually move to a new one. The largest move was to Schrade, and I was mentally and physically exhausted after it. I spent most of my days contemplating my next piece, planning it out, making notes. I had papers scattered all over Schrade, with designs and theories. I filled most of the bottom basement's walls, and was slowly working my way toward the first floor of the factory.

It was the night of my twenty-fifth birthday, definitely. I can recall the specific moment when I heard a door rattle open, and a piece of glass shatter to the ground. Although I was directly underneath the main entryway, I quickly gathered my belongings from working in that area, and zipped up my gray, worn out hoodie. I carefully placed my black mask on, making sure it was secure. I slowly made my way up the stairwell, staying hidden in the shadows. I saw the glinting of a flashlight in the distance, and frowned.

'Why would somebody come here now? It's probably past midnight...'

"Guys! This isn't funny anymore! I don't want to do this!"

I heard her voice, crying out into the darkness, high-pitched and frightened. The moonlight from a broken window rained down on her, and she stood.

Then my world, just like the piece of glass, fell to the ground and shattered into a million shining fragments.


	2. Christine I

**_Defacement _**

_Christine, Part I_

It wasn't my idea to move to Ellenville, nor my father's. It was the social worker's terrible, horrible scheme. I understood that there was nothing left for me at Hunt's Point, but I never believed I would be standing at bus terminal 32 in Port Authority with all of my bags packed and at my side. The cold chill of early October nipped at my feet when I walked into the lot and on to the small, cramped Coach bus.

I understood that my father had left me penniless, so affording to live in the city would've been nearly impossible even in the slum I had been residing in. However, moving to the middle of nowhere wasn't my ideal solution. The social worker assured me several days prior to my departure that it was all "for the best". Her long, garishly polished nails clinked loudly on the hardwood desk. She snapped her gum obnoxiously, and her firetruck red lipstick heavily coated the mouth that gave me a half-assed smile. Her teeth were a pale lemon color, and you could tell she was a heavy smoker by her deep, raspy voice.

"Honey," she oozed, "You'll love it there. It's nice and quiet, and the country is just _beautiful._ You can paint all the scenery you want, sweetie!"

I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh, nodding slowly. It was useless to try and educate her on exactly what kind of art I enjoyed, considering I knew that she really didn't give a flying fuck about me. All that truly mattered was getting this caseload off her back and into a nice "completed" folder. I stared at her for a long time, and then shifted my gaze to the framed degree on the wall.

'What bullshit,' I thought distantly.

"Sweetheart, did you hear me?"

I blinked several times and looked at the tacky woman with a large, gold and diamond encrusted necklace framing her thick double chin.

"Yeah. Thanks."

She narrowed her eyes and bent over her desk, pulling out a few papers.

"You'll be staying with Ms. Giry and her daughter Meghan. They're really pleasant people, and I'm sure you'll just _love _them."

"I'm sure I will," I said with no emotion.

She smiled a yellow-toothed grin and stood up, her oversized breasts jiggling with the sudden movement. She stretched out her hand adorned with oversized bejeweled rings and awaited mine. I slowly shook hers and quietly exited the stark white room. I followed the winding hallways out of the family services building and back onto the streets near my apartment, each step becoming more and more frantic. The heavy smog-filled air filled my mind, and I slipped into a daydream of when things were better. The rushing noise of the city jammed into my ears, soothing me.

I imagined my father sitting at home, waiting for me to get back from school. I imagined him tuning his violin, getting ready to go to the subways and set up his act. He would always come home with a case full of cash, and I would always wake up the next morning with a new drawing pencil or sketchbook. I loved my father, and I missed him more than words or art could ever express. His scruffy graying beard always tickled against my forehead during my regular goodnight kiss and even at my age, they were something I treasured more than any amount of money.

As I stepped onto that bus, my mind played over memories and scenes from my childhood. I saw my father's face, wrinkly and wise, graced with twinkling brown eyes. I saw his old, calloused hands tuning his beloved instrument, caressing it lovingly. My eyes watered, but I swallowed all the tears and emotions down my throat, shoving them far away from what was soon to be my new reality in Ellenville.

I had done some research on the town, which was situated in the middle of the Catskill mountains in upstate New York. Apparently it used to be a thriving area, with a very successful hotel and factory, but it all fell apart when they both closed and many people were left jobless. There was a high poverty and unemployment rate, and most apartment complexes in the town were geared toward low income families. There was a relatively large gap between those who were well off financially and those who weren't, and Ms. Giry's foster care seemed to be the latter. There was a small public school that didn't seem very interesting, and there looked to be absolutely nothing to do in the town. I dreaded my arrival there.

I watched the sun begin to dip beneath the horizon, splattering vibrant pinks and oranges against the skyline of my old home, which seemed to be getting farther and farther away. The twinkling city lights faded, and my heart grew heavy. I began to see green hues whizzing past me, and I knew my life was taking a drastic change in a bad direction. The sky grew dark and soon I couldn't recognize my surroundings, as street lights grew scarce. I looked out of the cloudy, fingerprint-smudged window and into the night sky.

I saw stars.

For the first time in my life, I saw many stars, perhaps even galaxies. My heart stopped mid-beat. I gazed into the heavens, seeing the white-hot balls of gas gleaming over me, shining with brilliance. They danced for me, blinking in rhythm, showering me with their light. I memorized each pattern I could make out, connecting stars together to make pictures, in awe of the true cosmic beauty I was surrounded with. I saw my father's smiling face in that sky, telling me to be brave, and that it would be alright. His eyes were the stars, protecting me and illuminating my lonely and dark present.

It seemed like I was on the bus for eons, but at last we puttered to a stop at a small building in what seemed like the beginning of the town. I grabbed my belongings, stepped off the bus, and stood for a few moments, realizing it was the police station. I sighed a deep, melancholic sigh, and opened the clear glass door. I was greeted by a harsh white light and the smell of cigarettes, and I felt awakened almost immediately.

"Hey there," a gruff voice greeted, "Are you Christine Day?"

I looked upward to see a man with dark skin and a small, neat black beard with jade-colored eyes. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and he gave off an authoritative and kind aura. I gave a small, lopsided smile politely and nodded.

"Yes. Nice to meet you."

He grinned and stated, "My name is Nadir Khan, and I'm one of the officers here. I got the job of taking you to Giry's. Let's head out before it get's too late, eh?"

He ushered me out of the back entrance of the building that was lit with only one orange street light and took my luggage.

"Packed light, huh?"

'I didn't have much to begin with,' I glared internally, but shook off the annoyance and smiled, "Yeah. I guess."

He opened the door to the cop car for me and we sped off into the night, the blurs of our rural surroundings cocooning us at warp speed.

We arrived at a large cedar-shingled house with orange shutters. There was an angled driveway and a long wooden stairway running parallel to it, with an unkept green lawn. A small yellow light illuminated the cream-colored doorway, and I made my way up the massive set of stairs, trying not to fall and kill myself. Nadir walked a few feet behind me, making sure I didn't get hurt.

I stood at the entrance and stared at the white door, my mind trying to imagine what was inside. What was Ms. Giry like? Was she like the atrocious social worker, or would she have a warm smile like my father? What was going to happen to me?

Nadir pulled me aside and knocked loudly on the door. I heard a high pitched yapping coming from within, and I almost fell from shock. It was a dog, and judging by the bark, it was a _small _dog. My face flushed and a look of excitement was plastered on my face. I LOVED dogs, especially tiny ones. I always wanted one, even though we could never afford nor be able to keep a puppy within our tiny apartment in Hunt's Point. I remember seeing all of the wealthy families in Central Park and their perfectly groomed pups trotting alongside them proudly, always feeling a surge of jealousy. I pondered the situation for a moment and had a slight glimmer of hope.

I heard the rustling of clothing and footsteps, and my pulse sped up tremendously. At last, the door creaked open and a tired-looking frail woman appeared.

"Is this Christine?"

A faint French accent, and the smell of roses.

I gaped at the thin but sturdy looking woman who couldn't have been over the age of forty-five. She had almond-shaped hazel eyes and round, rosy cheeks. Her mouth was small and heart-shaped, and her pink-tinged nose turned upward at the tip. Her smooth, dark mahogany-colored locks were pulled into a neat bun that sat at the top of her head, and her hair shimmered in the golden light emitted from the doorway. She was strikingly beautiful, even for a woman of her age.

Nadir smiled kindly and put a large hand over my shoulder. I felt the warm from his fingertips through my loose gray sweater and flushed a bit.

"Yes, Ms. Giry. I leave her in your care."

Ms. Giry nodded quietly and turned on her heel, leather boots clacking along the white chipped tile flooring. Nadir looked at me carefully and grasped my small, pale hands.

"Christine, if you ever need anything," he began softly, "or anyone to talk to, let me know. I'll be around."

My eyes grew foggy and hazy, almost brimming with unshed tears.

"Okay."

He tapped my back to push me forward, and I entered the home of Ms. Giry, shaking with frayed nerves.

"Come, Christine," she called to me, twisting her head to the side.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a ball of white fluff scurrying around, sniffing the ground intensely. It's small black eyes met with mine and a long pink tongue folded out from it's mouth, licking the air. It scampered toward me jovially, and my heart melted.

"Oh, that's Sorelli. She's our Maltese. She may bark a lot, but she's harmless."

Ms. Giry's mouth turned upward at the corners, and I assumed that's how she always smiled. A full-fledged grin, I had already realized, would just look awkward on her. She seemed too poised and elegant for that kind of thing. Even so, seeing that small movement made me feel much more comfortable - it made her appear a bit more human.

We climbed a set of carpet-lined stairs that led into a narrow hallway with several doors surrounding us on both sides. She pointed to the last door on the left, which was painted light blue. The door was already chipping away at the bottom and the brass handle seemed a bit dirty, but I smiled gratefully.

"This will be your room."

I tightened my grip on my small suitcase and nodded.

"Thank you, Ms. Giry."

She drank in my physical appearance and her sharp eyes softened.

"Please, call me Antoinette. This is your home now, after all."

With that small statement, my heart plummeted to the lowest pitt in my stomach.

_Home._

My home wasn't in the Bronx anymore. It wasn't in a cramped apartment that stunk of cigarettes and dirty dishwater. It wasn't with my father, my precious father who worked so hard to provide me with what little he could. His face burned in my mind, making my fingers go numb. I swallowed a large knot that developed in my throat and attempted a smile.

"Yes. Thank you."

With that, she turned and opened the door across the hall.

"Let me know if you need anything tonight. I would go to sleep soon, as you have school in the morning."

The door clicked shut and I was left alone in the darkness of the hallway. I let out an enormous and heavy-hearted sigh, and reached forward blindly. The door handle was cool and smooth, and I could smell the metallic material from where I stood. I pushed it open gingerly, and flipped on the light switch. A bare, white room glared back at me, with a small bed, several dressers, and a full length mirror on the back of the door. I dragged my suitcase inside and shut the door silently.

'It's as big as my apartment back in the city,' I mused.

I took a few steps forward and plopped down on the springy mattress.

'It's pretty comfortable.'

I suppose compared to my previous home, this place was an exquisite palace. I closed my eyes and tried to ease the throbbing pain in my head.

I then, for the first time in days, looked in the mirror and saw myself.

My skin was dry and pasty, with several pink bumps adorning the bottom of my chin. My lips were chapped and pale, and my gray-blue eyes looked duller than usual. My hair was a giant mass of frizz, blonde curls tight and unruly as ever. It fell in a giant mess over my shoulders, daring me to try and comb it. I looked at my stomach, which had always caused me so much stress, and hunched my shoulders forward. I noted that it appeared I had gained even more weight, if possible, because of stress. My shirt looked uncomfortably tight.

I knew I was never truly beautiful or thin, but my dad always said I had been the most breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on, apart from my mother.

_"You have her eyes...the color of the sea on a cloudy day. And that hair, who else has hair with such defiance?!" _

I smiled sadly at the memory and ignored the state of my body. I threw myself backwards onto the bed and stared into the ceiling.

'Well,' my mind decided, 'it's time to begin again.'

In the back of my mind, I heard the faint whispers of my fathers voice, echoing ever-so-softly, _"Be brave. You can do it."_

**author's note: **Hey guys! Sorry about the enormous amount of time that passed between these updates. I actually have half of chapter 4 written out, but not chapter 3. Erik's POV returns in 4. The next chapter will be a continuation of Christine's intro. Anywho, I want to thank all of the followers and reviewers! You guys are awesome. AND PLEASE REVIEW! It means a lot to me, and you guys make me feel like a million bucks when you do!


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